A BITTER HARVEST.

New Zealand Herald, Volume XLII, Issue 12932, 31 July 1905, Page 3

A BITTER HARVEST.

By CAROLINE HASTINGS. Author of the "Cross of Circumstances," "For the Sake of One Woman," "Eva's Dilemma," etc., etc. ' SYNOPSIS. ' Chapters 1., 11., and Ill—Florence Van Aj.-sda.le tells the story of her early life. Her mother is dead-,-her father seems much bent on Florence marrying one Claire Delsarte, whom she cordially dislikes. With her father she goes on a tap to Scotland, and while in the barracks at Port George a recruit known as Paul Jones saves her from being crashed by some falling masonry. She is much interested in the recruit, but i» utterly surprised alter her reaching Edinburgh to get a letter from a lady friend at Fort George telling her that Paul Jones had, after her departure, dropped down in a fainting fit, and when his coat was opened, to give him air, a locket was found containing a portrait of Florence. She is utterly at a loss to account for Paul Jones having such a portrait. CHAPTER IV. CLAIRE DELSARTE's ADVICE. " What ! You!" I exclaimed, startled out of myself, for I had supposed Claire Delsarte'many miles away. "You here!" "Yes, I am here," ho replied, with an enigmatical smile. "Mr. Van Arsdale got my telegram, I presume?" "I don't know. I don't think papa has had any telegram, or he would hardly have been out," I replied, feeling half ashamed of my incivility. "How did you know where to find us'.'" " A man like Mr. Van Arsdale is easily found, my dear Miss Van Arsdale," he said, seating himself with an. easy air of proprietorship that roused my anger afresh. " When a gentleman and his daughter take up their quarters in the most fashionable hotel they cannot hide their light under a bushel. Everyone at the station could tell me where to find him, even if your father had not kept me conversant with his movements." If this was business it was very unpleasant, and I sincerely wished that he would let us alone. I felt that I was being scrutinised carefully. He seemed to read my very thoughts, and I should not have been, in the least surprised if he had broken out with some remark about " Paul Joins" and the letter that I had been reading. I was horribly inhospitable. He had evidently been on a journey, arid I had offered him nothing. "I beg your pardon," I said. "I have been very rude. I never asked you if you had dined. Papa is—" " Ay, where is (he? Don't order anything for me, my dear. I will see about my own apartments. lam not going to intrude myself on you." " Papa is out," I replied. "I am not sure whether lie will be back before dinner-time. I am resting to-day, and he has taken the opportuuity'of going to some of hie friends. I fancy he is at the castle." " I must find him, wherever lie is. I must see him before mail time, or—" He stopped suddenly, and I saw a look of anxiety and worry in his face. The words he spoke brought the red into my cheeks, for I well hiew that when this man was near my father lost all interest in life, and his depression was shared by myself. I think the anger in my heart must have shown itself in my face, for Claire Delsarte turned to mo quite suddenly, and laid his hand on my shoulder—a thing he had never done before. "Florence," he said. "Miss Van Arsdale." , " Yes," I said, hardly daring to move, and wondering what was coming next. I could not shake' off the heavy hand; it seemed to have taken possession of me somehow.' ■

" You don't like me?"

"I—I—" I .stammered, not knowing, what to reply; he had gone so very straight j to the point. . ' ■' _.. . I "Don't spoil your pretty mouth, with ( a . gentle fib," he said, in a meaning tone. "I, know perfectly well in what estimation you l hold me." • ~'■,'* ." Then why ask me?" I said. I confess I was frightened by his manner. "Ah! Why, indeed? There was hardly any occasion. I will give you a piece of advice, Florence— over that dislike' as i soon as may be; it will be better for you I in the future." • : . •:■•," ;-, "What do you mean.'" I,gasped,'feeling | now that he must have been 1 drinking some- i thing stronger than coffee on his northward : journey. "Why do you say such strange things to me? We cannot help our likes and dislikes, and I have never told you I disliked you." '.'," -, . " No," he retorted, " you have not told mo so in words. You are too well bred a young lady for that; but I have read it in.your eyes a hundred times. You will do well to conquer that dislike;, it will be better for you in the days to come." , He took his hand from my. shoulder and left me with all the pleasure gone out of my day and a hundred fears intruding themselves for the future. What could he want with papa? What business could possibly be so urgent that he had to com© from London to Edinburgh? I sat thinking all sorts of things, and dreading I knew not what, till the waiter brought me some tea and asked for orders about dinner. The Bruce kept a table d'hote alter the Continental fashion, and we dined at it, preferring the certainty of hot dishes and good cookery to the chance of a cold dinner and second-rate viands in our own apartments. My father liked the society at a aood table d'hote, and was himself an acquisition to such a gathering. I told tie man that if my father did not return by the time the second bell rang that I would dme in our own apartments. To my surprise father came much earlier than I anticipated, only to fetch something he had forgotten, and was going to take to the castle; but he did not go out again without coming to see how I was getting on. "Why, Florence, child, what is it.' were his first words, for he saw at a glance that something was wrong. "What has happened, dear? Are you afraid to be left alone, or dull, or what?" ~,.,. , "No, it is not that," I said, trying to smile. "I am not nervous, papa deaf, " But what, dear? Has anything frightened you? Has anyone intruded on you.' " Yes." "Who?" " Mr. Claire Delsarte." For a moment I was frightened at the effect my words produced. My father s face turned deathly white, and he seemed to control himself with difficulty. " Delsarte! Here!" he said, after a. moment. "Yes; is anything the matter, papa.' Are you ill?" ~ .. , . "No, dear," he said; "it was a slight spasm—a remnant of my illness, I suppose. It is quite gone now. I have been walking too fast. I will sit clown. Now, then, I am all right; let me hear this wonderful piece of news again. . You say Claire .Delsarte is here?" i "Yes." " When did he come?" " About half an hour ago," I replied.' " He said he must see you before mail time. I offered him some lunch." "Quite right, little woman. We must be hospitable to our old friends. Did he have any?" " No; he said he would see about his rooms himself; he is going to stay." " Only till to-morrow, dear. I can guess what he has come about. I must find him." He did his best to speak calmly and pleasantly to me, but I could see that the news of Mr. Delsarte's arrival had affected him strangely. ■ i.S I am sure it was that and not any spasm that had taken the colour out of Iris cheek and the light out of his eyes, and I hated Claire Delsarte more than evei in my heart for not leaving us alone when we were so comfortable and happy in our own society. "I must go and seek him," my father said; " his business will not wait, I know. Ah, here he is!" as the door opened and the man we were speaking of came in, a different creature after a change of clothes. He was his own courtly self now, and the odd excitement with which lie had spoken to me seemed to have vanished altogether; my father greeted h*im warmly enough, but with something in his manner that seemed to me very much like dread, and I saw the hand he held out to his friend shake as if he had the ague; then, after a word or two, they left the room together, and I was left tc my own thoughts till dinner time.

Passing to my own room soon afterward to dress I went into the dressing-room off my father's room for something I had left there, when, to my surprise, I heard voices.

I had no idea anyone was there; I thought my father and Mr. Delsarte had gone downstairs, and I was softly going back when I heard my own name. • "What! Florence If" my father was saying, in tones if pained surprise, that sounded as if he were saddened more than he could express by something that had gone before. • "Yes, Florence!" replied Mr. Delsarte. "Is there no other way? Will nothing else do''" "Nothing; you have my ultimatum; » is not a very hard one, surely." ' • . " I don't know ; my beautiful, bright child, my light-hearted girl; it can never come about, Delsarte!" "If you are quite sure of-that there is nothing for me but to send back those papers by to-night's mail. I cannot afford to do all and get nothing." " All! Have I not done my share'/" • " Undoubtedly, but I do not ask too much for what I promise to do; it must be yea or nay, and at once." • > " My innocent girl, or" "Exactly. Miss Florence, or the consequences of my sending the news back to London to-night." " Put it off for a day, Delsarte; I can do nothing till after this" evening; I will not force her; it 'must be of her own free will, , or not at all."

" She will obey; she is devoted to her father."

That I was, heart and soul. I tried to think what could possibly be impending that I could avert; I had stood riveted to the' spot while the conversation, which was not meant for my ears, was going on, but. as soon as the voices ceased, as they did at the last words I have recorded, I fled to my room, and did not emerge till I was ready for dinner—ready to go downstairs rather, certainly not ready to eat anything. I sent away plate after plate untouched, with my heart full of a shapeless dread of I knew not what, and all my innocent pleasure spoiled by the presence of the man I so feared and disliked. How could I eat? I saw that my father took very little, either. The only one of our party who seemed quite at his ease, and able to do justice to the good meal placed before us, was Mr. Claire Delsarte. . J But doubtless his journey had given him an appetite; he lingered over a substantial dinner without taking much notice of either my father or me, though now and then I fancied he was watching me from under his bushy eyebrows, and I feared and disliked him "more than ever as- I saw my father's sad, preoccupied face, and knew that his friend and ally must have brought him very bad news indeed.

CHAPTER V. "but NOT THIS MAN." "Is Claire Delsarte coming back to our rooms to-night, papa?" " Not at present.' "I'am very glad." I nestled closer to my father's side in our snug sitting-room, for they made us very comfortable at the Bruce, and the sittingrooms were like home in their cosy arrangements. I did not notice the sigh that echoed my careless words. I was very glad to hear that Claire Delsarte was going to let us alone for this night, at least, and I wanted to sweep away, if I possibly could, the cloud that had settled on the face that was so dear to me. My father looked terribly distressed, as he had on the day when he was stricken down by his severe illness, and I felt a vague fear that something of the sort was coming on him again. " I am afraid you are ill as well as tired, papa, dear," I said, after a pause, stroking the hand he had laid in mine. " Your eyes , are so heavy." "My head aches, Florence. I have had some ■ disagreeable business to think about : to-day, my little girl." " Papa, I am a grown-up young lady. "Well, my grown-up daughter, then.. I am afraid you will always be a little girl to me, my darling. You love me, do you not?" i "Love you: What a question, daddy! Do you not know 1 do?" "And you would do a great deal for me.' "I would die for you, I think." He looked at me with a troubled face, and was silent for.a. minute. Then he quoted, ! half 'to.'himeelh--: ; '• ' : -; j ; "'Greater love hath no man than this, I that a man lay down his life for his | friends.'" !'•''■ 1 .".That is the greatest test of love, my I darling. I shall not require that at your ; hands. What else would you do for your : foolish'old.father, who has no wish but for . your happiness';" "Anything', papa—anything that you could ask." ', • •■ " Then I am goiug to ask you something I to-night." • " Ask and you shall have." ■' It was something ' about money—l. felt; sure of that. Perhaps he was going to ask me to give Mm all that was mine. Pshaw! that was folly. Had he not got it in his hands already, to do what he liked with it? It did not signify what, it was, I' would do; i it. His next question was startling. Wc ! had never touched on such a topic before, , " Are you heart-whole, Florence?" "Papa!" : ■ : ". I think I hardly understood what he meant for a minute, and when I comprehended I laughed and lifted my head— 1 was sitting at his feet— look at his face. It was very grave, and my laughter died out in a minute. , "Of course I am," I said. " You ought to know that." '• Ay, I ought, I suppose. I have done my best to keep lovers away. There is no one? The way is clear?" " What do you mean?" I asked, for the last four words startled me. " Why do you bring up such things?" "Because I have been asked for your hand, my darling. I have been asked to give you up to the keeping of a husband— you, my darling, that I have loved and cherished so." .'

".But I don't want to go into any husband's keeping, papa," I said, intensely shocked. " Say ' no' to whoever it is, and send him away. I don't want to leave you." " I cannot do that, Florence. I 'have promised to give the proposal my reasonable attention and to speak to you." " Who is it, papa? I don't know anybody who wants to marry me." Why did my thoughts go back to Fort George, I wonder? And why did the image of the man I had called Sir Bedivere rise up before me at my father's speech? Fie! I must be going a little crazy, I thought, that I could not put away the image of this common man, this,private soldier. It was so present with me that I half expected to hear my father say "Paul Jones" in answer to my query. Instead of that he uttered a name that nude mo spring to my feet and stand before him with a blazing face and glittering eyes. "Claire Delsarte. He has asked me for you, Florence." • "How dare he?" It was all I could find to say, so great was my astonishment ami disgust.

"Dare! My child," my father said, sadly, " that is hardly the word to use. He is my friend, and, though he is older than I could have wished your husband to be, he is—

"He is nothing that could ever make me marry him, papa," I said. " Don't speak of it again! Don't ask me to do such a dreadful thing! I cannot—l mil not!"

I was astonished at my own vehemence, but I was taken by surprise. Mr. Delearte was the very last man on the earth I should have thought my father would have liked for my husband, and I forgot myself and to whom I was speaking in my utter amazement.

"Florence!" my father said, in a grieved tone, and I quieted myself in a moment and tried to be calm. "My dear, think what you are saying,' he said, after a pause. " I think you hardly understood me. Claire Delsarte has asked for you for his wife. He is my friend and a rich man. He will make you a. good husband, and—

He stopped abruptly and sought my eyes with an appealing glance. For a few-minutes there was a dead silence in the room.

We could hear our hearts beat. Then I spoke— with suppressed passion, but with a firmness which I fancied would make my answer final. . "Listen to me, father. I have obeyed you in everything, have I not? I have tried to be a dutiful daughter, and my love for you is stronger than ever; but I cannot do this thing that you propose. Anybody else, papa—anybody else; but not this man . I will never marry Claire Delsarte—' <Q'o he continaed daily.)